


Island Gettaway

by Anonymous



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Aden is fluffy, Anya wants Lexa to get laid, Dom/sub Undertones, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, F/F, Fighter Pilot Clarke Griffen, Memory Loss, My First Smut, Sex Slave Clarke Griffen, Themyscira au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:47:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23565541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Clarke’s plane crashes into what should be open water. Anya finds a solution to her sekon’s difficulty.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 3
Kudos: 70
Collections: Anonymous





	Island Gettaway

The first thing Clarke is aware of is pain.

The second is that she has a name, and, after a while, that it is Clarke.

Clarke. Cl-ark. Claaarke. With a ll and an arr and a k. Clarke.

It takes a bit of thought to extrapolate that if she has a name, she is a thing and that pain she’s feeling is probably her. It starts sorting itself into distinct entities after that. Her chest aches, growing sharp every time she breathes in. There's a throbbing in her head (which exists), above and to the left of her eye. Her lip stings.

She also appears to have gone deaf. It doesn’t matter as much as it ought to, because she’s also blind. So maybe she doesn't have eyes.

She discovers the last two complaints are because of blindfold and earmuffs respectively, when she’s shoved to her knees and they are torn off. Also, ow, her knees. They exist and they _hurt_.

She blinks into light. Her ears work, at least. Her breathing is really loud. She breathes in with a whoosh and out with a whoosh and that rustling - is that blood she's hearing.

Her eyes only work when they're open. She knew that.

Ah. There’s a kid standing in front of her. He’s slightly taller standing than she is on her knees. Cute, in a fluffy haired Peter Pan kind of way. His clothes are black, not green. Ninja Peter Pan. She blinks at him. Not the same as blinking at the light. A different kind of blink. More confused. She had a cat that - no. Did she have a cat?

A throat is cleared. Not Pete's. She looks up, past his head - fluffy - and - oh. There's a throne. There's a throne in front of a window which is where all the light is coming from. That makes more sense. Words go over her head to – oh. Oh again. There’s a hand on her shoulder. A person behind her. She’s not sure if it's because of her head is as fluffy as Pete's hair, but she can’t understand a word being spoken.

“Who are you.” Ah, so it _is_ a different language then. Her reply is a grunt. A sharp gesture – nice hands, long fingers, and pretty nails, nice and short and buffed to a soft sheen – and a gag is removed from her mouth. She's forgotten she had that. The things she’s learning today. She licks lips – ow – and tries again. “Clarke.” Voice cracks on the last syllable. She’s not in the best shape she’s ever been in her life.

“Klark ... Griffen?”

That sounds about right. She nods, but pretty hands is still talking. Talking more, and the person behind shakes her shoulder.

“You have trespassed into Kongeda lands, and the territory of the sacred Trikru Quinkeepa.” Pretty hands tucks them away out of sight behind her back. “How do you answer this charge?”

How does she answer that charge? She doesn’t know anything about Kong ladders or tree crews queen keepers. She opens her mouth to say ... something ... but there is talking again. Closer now, and oh, her eyes are pretty too. “Heda is merciful. In time you may come to enjoy the service.” Which sounds like something's been decided. Not really paying attention to figuring out what, because her fingertips trace just under Clarke’s jaw. They're rougher than she expected from the clear buff of her nails. Thinks she’s missed something somewhere, but mercy sounds good. She enjoys ... being ... mercy ... no, that can’t be right. “On your tech two –” She stops listening. They're talking in code and her head hurts and touch is soft.

Clarke is lifted to her feet – her shoulders ache, right in the shoulder-blade, big muscly bit and underneath the left, right where being picked up catches – and led away. She’d like her blindfold back. Walking with her eyes closed doesn’t really help. She can still see the light, and the horizon bounce every time she goes up and sideways. Which is ... not how she normally walks? She thinks?

She’s put in a room with a bed. It’s got a big, fancy frame and the rest of the room looks like the same, but the bed is what she wants, after a few tugs at her wrists and let go.

* * *

Pretty Eyes breaks her doze when she enters. Clarke rolls over to face her and drops to her feet when she runs out of bed. Takes her in without moving further. Her head feels clearer after a nap. Not that she'd felt bad before. Just less aware of herself. And - her muscles are quick to remind her - in pain. Now she just feels stiff.

Her visitor has lost some of the formality from the throne room. Her eyeliner is still on point though, and the indoor coat is seriously badass. Clarke wishes she had a coat like that. She gotten close. Eyelashes make her eyes even prettier. She’s playing with – no, she’s cutting her clothes. Where did she get a knife? Distant concern. Not hurting her with it. Front flap falls open. _C. Griffen_ , it says. So that’s how they knew her name. Bra follows, falling away completely. Knife disappears while she’s watching it go. She still has pants, and sleeves. So that's ... half dressed?

Also looking. No, staring. Eyes intent like she's hungry and Clarke's made of black forest gateau. Clarke knows the feeling. Her boobs are great. Isn't surprise either when hands come up, warm and soft. Maybe she is a bit annoyed to loose her shirt. The room is cold. Then she squeezes, and Clarke gasps. On the one hand, it's nice - Clarke has always liked the idea of pretty girls touching her - but it also hurts. She pulls her hands away, and Clarke frowns and half follows her. It's _cold_ , and really doesn't hurt all that much. It probably wouldn't anything but nice, if she went a bit gentler. If she could make her understand that somehow -

Picks up a steaming mug - how are things just appearing - and offers it. "Here. For the pain."

Clarke wants to thank her - with words, because those exist now that she remembers them - but the drink is insistent at her lips and spilling into her mouth. It tastes like grass. Then she's being pressed back against the bed, the rest of her clothing pulled off, legs lifted up and across and fur pulled over to cover her. Clarke has time enough to blink at the ceiling before she curls in beside her, one hand draped across chest to cover her boob again. Oh. Okay then. She blinks, and sleeps.

* * *

Clarke wakes to sunlight, golden like melted butter and melted candles. She can think more than before she slept -enough to realise how strange having a stranger take off her shirt is - and move less. The arm across her chest has been joined by a leg tangled between hers, and she's been half turned on her stomach besides. For all that, she's feeling remarkably free from pain.

Injury - especially injuries she can't remember getting - and strangers who keep her trussed up are not a good combination. Unless it's a hospital, but this doesn't fell like a hospital. Those have codes of ethics, as far as she can recall.

...She can't recall very far. She's been in this room, and the room with the throne, and before that is a dark blur. Which was probably the blindfold, now that she thinks of it.

She should probably find that more worrying then she does. Can't really make the effort. Even thinking about wanting to make that effort is like lifting buckets of wet sand. More of a concern that she won't know anyone's name.

People like the girl replacing candles. There are a lot of candles in the room. Enough for an entire basket.

She shifts to see what she's doing with the stubs, and the grip tightens. Girl meets her eye, and blushes. Clarke has a long peaceful moment of wondering if she should be blushing too - she doesn't feel like it, but maybe its one of those socially indicated things? - and then the girl is scrambling to her feet and out the door.

She knocks a candle over.

"Wait -"

Her cuddler wakes. Her grip tightens again, pulling them closer together, and relaxes while Clarke is investigated. The hand at her waist wanders down and onto her leg and back up again. Clarke wonders when they got so familiar, but it would be awkward to ask now that they're in bed together.

Face is tucked into the back of Clarke's neck. Puffs of warm air as she breathes sends shivers down her spine. Heat coils in her belly.

"Has your pain lessened?"

"Y-yeah." That's likely to change once she moves her weight off her arm, but until then Clarke is content.

She hums. "Good." Hand starts to move, and - Oh. _Very_ familiar.


End file.
